


When Words Get Broken

by Gilded_Pleasure



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: First Meetings, GRILLBY’Sans Bar and Grill(by’s), He Is A Tour De Force, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Other, People Aren't Ready For Papyrus, SO, This is Regular Papyrus, This is also lowkey my love letter to the community, as it turns out., camp gays have real feelings 2020, i guess, lol, some awkwardness, we do PAPSCAPS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilded_Pleasure/pseuds/Gilded_Pleasure
Summary: No matter how early you show up, he’s already here. Today’s no exception.You get your usual and do your usual, reliable as watching the tallest person here somehow one-upping his last outfit. Something about the way he moves makes your heart lighter, while simultaneously impressing you with his sheer enthusiasm for doing the cabbage patch.Yeah.He’s kind of memorable.
Relationships: Papyrus (Undertale)/Reader, Papyrus (Undertale)/You
Comments: 66
Kudos: 121





	1. Blowing Off Steam

[Erasure – Chains of Love](https://youtu.be/6J2OlIpQgF8)

No matter how early you show up, he’s already here.

Today’s no exception.

Lavender vinyl hot pants and a star-printed crop top show off his slender spinal column, which is covered in some kind of dark, fitted leotard. Opera-length gloves, what appear to be galoshes….and sunglasses. At night, indoors. Taped to the sides of his skull. With iridescent….aqua-blue...band aids?

It’s 8:30 pm on a Thursday, and you’re at your usual place. You get your usual, do your usual. It’s a nice time, as reliable as watching the tallest person here somehow one-upping his last outfit. Something about the way he moves makes your heart lighter, while simultaneously impressing you with his sheer enthusiasm for doing the cabbage patch.

Yeah. He’s kind of memorable.

It’s Tuesday, just after 7….and there he is, twirling like a top in a green circle skirt, hoop earrings taped to his skull, and a fluffy shrug that looks like he skinned a muppet and hotglued its shattered dignity along with googly eyes at random all over it. You can’t stop watching him, although you try to be subtle about it. Watching his big, boatlike feet step neatly over each other so fast they seem to flicker makes you reconsider your opinion of whether hypnosis is real. Watching his head snap to the side again and again as he spots makes you rub phantom whiplash out of your own neck.

You wonder, as you never fail to do, what his deal is.

It’s Thursday, 6:30, and of course he’s stomping out a complex pattern in his own little space, glitter-red and hot pink in an eye-searing combination. It’s more noticeable since it’s so early the crowd could barely be called one. You keep trying to decide whether he’s supposed to be a matador or a vampire, ruffled shirt and bone-tight pants showing off his many skeletal assets. The stilettos add another few inches to his already impressive height, and you wonder if he worries about bumping his head on things. Whether he ever does. It’s hard to imagine, considering the...well. “Grace” might be an exaggeration, but he’s one of the few people who somehow never seems to bump into anyone else. Another impressive trait, considering how uncontrolled the flapping of his arms _seems_ to be. That must just be on purpose.

You wonder why he comes here, as opposed to a club more dedicated to actual dancing. Other people dance here sometimes too, but not like _him_. You never see him talking to anyone or drinking anything, since he never stops dancing. One time you meet the eyes of a monster who looks away from him at the same time you do; you give each other a shy smile and sip your drinks in tandem. It makes you feel like less of a creep to know you’re not the only one who think he’s worth a second look or two. Or ten.

Okay, so maybe you come to here for your own reasons, too. The music, the dim and constantly changing lighting, the harsh cackles of unrestrained laughter and bellow of conversation, the clatter and clink of drinks being served and consumed. The constant potential for a social situation, whether it be a stranger’s attempt to become an acquaintance, or the potential of every approachable stranger to become a friend for the night, for a while, for life.

None of those are the sort of thing anyone who knows you _medium_ would assume you like. Knowing people medium is always the quagmire of understanding, the pit into which many relationships fall and never recover from. The danger zone, if you will. Those who know you barely at all would of course take each bit of new information as it comes; those who know you well have a better grasp of what truly makes you tick.

After a drink or three the warring sensory information blends together into something more than bearable; it’s _comforting_. The buzzing, hivelike sense of community that swaddles your loneliness in a soothing balm of togetherness. The weight of other people’s expectations get a little lighter here, because it’s based around an assumed commonality.

Nothing says _explicitly_ that this is a gay bar...well. Other than a few promo stickers for events you know are community on one of the murky windows facing the outside, and a few rainbow lighting schemes that go by before flickering back to something imitative of firelight, or cool blue like a snowstorm, or purple like a secret underground cavern, or green like everyone’s underwater.

Other than the fact that it’s also a monster bar, and the vast majority of monsters just like who they like. You come to the bar in order to exist slightly more comfortably than you do outside it. The monsters make this bar a gay bar the same way you do: by coming here.

It’s Thursday, about 9 pm and he’s already here, sweating and moving and shedding what you’re pretty sure are feathers from his many narrow marabou boas. A few are fluttering in his sweaty breeze from where they lie on the floor like roadkill, and the other patrons give them a narrow berth as they walk by now and then. Or maybe they’re just understandably wary of his remarkably energetic elbows as he determinedly demonstrates proper technique for an effective Funky Chicken.

The bartender tonight is not the usual one. Still a monster though, and seems just as chill as the other, if by somewhat different standards. It’s not a big place, but it’s got ambience. You’d be hard-pressed to say exactly what the ambience _is_ exactly, but the blend of humans and monsters casually socializing makes it feel like anything could happen, while also conveying the reassurance that if it does, it won’t be anything bad or even especially disruptive.

The bartender meets your eyes, makes the gesture to indicate he has a gender and what it is before you have a chance to make the inquiring one. It’s a thing that developed the first few years after the barrier broke and monsters emerged from Ebott, since humans were…struggling with that sort of thing. It’s not always necessary; there are certain clothing styles and combinations that also indicate stuff for monsters, which is why you know the one you watch all the time is a “he”. But the gesture saves time and helps with ambiguous situations, like being about to talk to a monster you’ve never met before who doesn’t have anything immediate about him that would let you know otherwise.

There are a few other gestures that communicate other important things; ‘don’t touch me or you’ll be horribly maimed’ is another. The usual bartender made that one the night you’d made your first furtive appearance here. You’d gotten used to that sort of introduction quickly, it’s kinda like a no-touchy handshake for when humans and monsters meet. Monsters don’t need it; for some reason they always just _know_.

You give him your best flirty smile, try to think of something to break the ice as you clear you throat self-consciously.

“Hey, so. Do you think he’s on drugs?”

“Huh?” He looks remarkably confused, and you already regret opening your mouth. Force of habit, maybe. Welp. You said it, so now you have to go with it.

“The person in the corner dancing. It's just that he’s always there already whenever I come in, and he’s still there when I head out. And he doesn’t _stop_ for hours, not even to get a drink.” You don’t really want to use the word “stamina” in this context, but it’s the most accurate word you can think of, so it won’t leave the front of your brain. You settle for gesturing toward the object of your, um, consternation, and shrug curiously. “I just thought maybe he does, _you_ know,” you say, and tap your nose even though the mystery dancer doesn’t actually have one.

“Oh,” He chokes out, then starts laughing. “Oh! Oh, god, _no_ , that’s just _Papyrus_. He’s not...” He apparently needs a minute or two to laugh some more, slapping a hand over his face for good measure.

“Hooo...” he moans eventually, mimes wiping a tear although you don’t see any evidence of one. “You got the wrong idea, I think. He’s just blowing off some steam. He actually teaches history over at the community college…comes here right after his classes, most of the time.”

“Wow,” you say sincerely, glance at the bartender’s expression and decide not to add the “really?” at the tip of your tongue. Whatever you’ve been imagining this...Papyrus… gets up to in his non-dancing time, it hadn’t been _that_. His eccentricities have begun to haunt your thoughts now and then when you’re elsewhere, considering what _he_ must be like elsewhere. Wondering if he has a job, perhaps one that requires him to wear clothes he didn’t make himself. Wondering if he’ll be here even though he always is, trying to imagine what he must be like when he’s not. You haven’t gotten very far with that last one, but now might finally be your chance. This new guy’s a lot more talkative than the usual bartender already, who’s so quiet you kind of wonder if he _can_ talk at all.

“Well. It’s not like he comes here every _day_ ,” the substitute ‘tender adds with a lopsided smirk.

“Oh,” you reply, frowning. “He doesn’t?”

“No,” he adds, the smile softening. “Guess you guys have a similar schedule, huh?”

You blush, feeling a little called out, but he shakes his head kindly. “It’s okay. A lot of people don’t know what to make of him, but he’s just a cooler dude than most people are used to. Some folks...”

Another patron barrels up all sweaty and elated to order a round for their group, and the bartender tends the bar for a few minutes. You entertain yourself with your own drink, no alcohol this time since you have to wake up early tomorrow and that usually gives you a headache. You watch Papyrus’s smooth transition between time signatures as the song changes, notice another feather boa bite the dust as he does a big, wide flail thing with both arms. He ignores his fallen comrade with equanimity, caught up in his own special brand of scintillating, contagious joie de vivre.

“He has an Ocean Safety Youth Group on the weekends.” You turn your attention back to the bartender, who’s lining up some more shot glasses at his lower counter level on the inside of the big customer counter part. “That’s why he comes on weekdays. The college stuff starts later in the day…” There’s a little mat that seems to be just for that right there. It’s got pictures of stylized flames on it. Cute.

“He doesn’t seem that young to me,” you say absently, watching the rainbow lighting scheme roil by to touch the thick-bottomed glasses with an entrancing fae glow.

He’s laughing at you again.

“No, no….” Another headshake, and you’re starting to be reminded why you don’t often make casual conversation with strangers. He doesn’t seem bothered or anything, but still. “I’m saying he _runs_ the LGBT Surfing and Ocean safety Youth Group out of the center on the weekends, that’s why he comes here during the week. He teaches it. Says the kids deserve him at his most enthusiastic, not all worn out from-” he snickers, but kindly, “-partying.”

“I mean, it definitely looks like a party to _me_ ,” you grin. “I just don’t think anyone else is invited, or maybe I would, I don’t know. Buy him a drink or something?”

This seems to significantly increase the bartender’s amusement.

“Oh, people’ve _tried_ , but Papyrus just leaves ‘em,” he answers lightly. “He says he only dates actors.”

“You know….somehow, I believe it,” you reply, and you and the bartender share a nice long giggle at that. “You seem to know him pretty well,” you add curiously. “But I don’t think I’ve seen you here before, and….” You trail off, since his omnipresent grin’s gone sheepish, and he’s rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.

“Guess I have been calling off a lot lately,” he mumbles, then seems to shrug it off. “Grillbz never gives me grief about it, but that’s just because I’m good in the sack,” he says, leaning forward to give you a conspiratorial little wink.

“Oh!” you say, surprised. “Ohh….is this like….your guyses place?”

His mouth twitches, and he glances to the side and back. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he sighs heavily.

You clear your throat and cross your arms, not wanting to step into anything that might be a lover’s quarrel. “So, I assume he’s been coming here a long time?”

The bartender, pulled away from his mercifully mysterious thoughts, blinks in confusion. You jut your chin towards the Dancing Queen, who’s turned out to _not_ be the crystal queen you’d half-suspected. And is actually a rather upstanding sort of dude, from what turns out to be the _other_ guy running the place has to say.

His mood seems much improved by directing his attention back towards Papyrus, rather than his own situation and whatever emotions he experiences thereof. You can certainly relate to that, considering you’ve made what’s turning into a hobby of thinking about Papyrus as opposed to your own trials and tribulations. They’re boring; he’s remarkably _interesting_. Even more interesting than he appears at first, from what you’re learning.

Turns out the only part of him that _you_ ever see is the one time a guy who’s pretty conscientious, if a little uptight...finally lets his nonexistent hair down. You feel a little bad for being so judgmental, but hey. You were only trying to start a conversation, right? Well. Maybe starting a conversation by inviting someone to gossip meanly about an eccentric stranger is not a good look on you. Maybe you shouldn’t let the toxic overtures common to other friend groups you already ditched for greener pastures inform your behavior in the future. There’s a reason you moved _here_ , after all.

“You could say that, yeah,” the bartender chuckles. “Been here since day one, almost like he came equipped with the place.” He winks again.

“That makes sense, since you seem to know him pretty well,” you say, relaxing back into the conversation.

“Much as anyone can,” he chuckles wryly, makes a fluttering gesture with nimble little fingers. “He’s like the wind, you know?” You grin at the corny metaphor as he continues. “Blows in, makes everyone pay attention cause you can’t not, that’s just how he is. Always on his terms, but he makes you...want to be on good terms _with_ him. Makes you want to...I dunno. Feel like you should get over yourself and try as hard as he does. Makes you want to...” He looks over your shoulder with a soft smile, and you know he’s watching Papyrus do his thing. “Live up to his standards? Be better? Makes you wish _you_ could just let loose like that too, even if he doesn’t really see it that way.”

His sigh this time is wistful, and you wonder if he’s one of the ones that bought a rejected drink once upon a time for a brief moment. Then you dismiss it, because it doesn’t really seem like that sort of thing. Wrong vibe.

“Sounds like it’s more than just a fashion statement,” you giggle. “It’s a whole life philosophy to go along with the pageantry.” You turn again to see Papyrus shimmy and twirl, shaking your head as he does both at once. He’s really got some moves. “I guess if you’ve known him since you opened this place, you’ve cracked the code at least a little bit, right?”

He laughs even harder at that, and you look back at him.

“Well, _yeah_ , but that’s not why.” He rubs the back of his hand under his chin. It makes a little rasping sound, since both are made of what appears to be bone. “Paps is my little brother.”

Oh.

Oh….shit.

You mouth drops open, and your face feels as flaming as the usual bartender…who apparently shares his name with the bar itself.

 _Grillby’s_.

And yeah, this guy’s a skeleton too, but that doesn’t really mean anything when it comes to monsters. Not like all slimes are related, either. Besides, other than the whole made of bones thing, they look absolutely _nothing_ alike. This guy’s about half Papyrus’s height, and his face (skull?) is a completely different shape, all round, tired, and soft-looking where Papyrus is bright-socketed, chiseled, and remarkably handsome….he’s memorable, and dynamic, and effervescent, and….

And _you_ decided to break the ice by asking Grillby’s _partner_ whether or not his remarkably eccentric upstanding citizen of a little brother, who he obviously adores and may be slightly protective of, is _on meth or something_.

Yep.

This is why you don’t strike up conversations with random people.

You garble out something that’s hopefully an appropriate excuse, leave a wad of sweaty cash on the bar to cover your tab, and flee the scene of your unforgivable insult with your head held low. So much for having a usual place.

… _.Fuck._


	2. Stirring The Pot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Cibo Matto – Spoon](https://youtu.be/yzQRnxPuXlY)

“Why are there so many recipes for _dip_?” you mutter quietly to yourself.

You turn the page, but...yeah. There’s at least ten more pages of the “Fix-It And Forget-It” cookbook that are literally just goop to eat with chips. Ground beef goop. Bean goop. Beer and cheese goop. Goop with or without cilantro.

Having recently received a Crock Pot as a gift, you’ve come to one of your favorite places to peruse their cookbook selection of the slow-cooker variety. It’s a little hole in the wall bookshop that also serves coffee and tea. And sure, you could look recipes up online, but you’ve kind of been wanting to get out more lately.

Considering you’ve been kind of staying in of an evening. Of late. For reasons. Most of which are your little misadventure at the gay bar. But so far you haven’t irreparably embarrassed yourself at the gay _bookstore_! So it’s nice to have an excuse to come here, which you’ve been doing. Slightly more than usual. Maybe three times a week. And as always, you do what you can to look your best.

You hate to think of it as “dressed up”, and you’re _not_...not _really_. More of a carefully curated appearance. It sounds shallow, but…. You want people to see you, to know who you are. Maybe even if it’s just to be known as a regular at the bookstore.

You’ve been living in this town for a while, but it’s not as easy to make friends as you’d hoped. You tend to get into a routine, then before you know it, the routine ends up being a rut. So you try and dress in a way that…might start a conversation? T shirts with bands, movies, and shows you enjoy the most. Messenger bag adorned with little patches and buttons to show what kind of interests you have, the sort of art you find appealing. Spending time here at the bookstore so people will know you like to read. Odds are high that that interest, at least, will be shared.

Or who knows, maybe just a potentially shared interest in caffeinated beverages. Reminded, you take a sip and turn the page.

“Why the fuck does it have _cream cheese_?” you whisper in horror at the ‘Taco Pizza Dip,’ yet another atrocious insult to ground beef that you hope is really just padding for the touted ‘700 recipes’ this book contains. Sure, you could skip ahead to another section, but you're taking your time on this journey, dammit. Who knows, maybe someone interesting will wonder why you’re hissing quietly at a cookbook. But no one ever does, that’s the thing.

You know it’s easier for others to meet people. Some people have a kind of sparkle that seems to draw others to them, and you know that you just… don’t. And it’s not about being attractive, conventionally or not. It’s more, less, and completely different from that. Nothing as simple as charisma, either. There are plenty of charismatic people who are actually unpleasant, or even malicious. You blush, thinking of some of the ones you’ve known personally. And there are those who put on a front, or just say whatever seems convenient at the time. Whatever will make the person they're talking to like them, or do what they want them to do.

This is something else. There are individuals who shine with nothing more than the power of being the most true form of _themselves_. Always striking, their inner fire immediately recognizable. The kind of person that makes you warm just from being near them. That’s the kind of person you not only want to be, but the kind of person you’d like to _meet_. Not because you want anything from them, but...just, just to…

“Oh my god...they just keep _going_ ,” you mumble, distracted by literally the thirtieth recipe whose prime ingredient is one pound of ground beef along with a bunch of things in cans. And what continues to be a disturbing amount of inexplicable cream cheese. It’s kind of impressive at this point.

Your thoughts return from their momentary vacation, and you glance around the quiet shop wistfully.

You feel like _you_ should somehow be able to harness the power of being the youest you that you can...you? In a way others can see. To find the pulse of what makes you tick, and find a way to _express_ that. To communicate that. To communicate _anything_ , which you… don’t exactly always. Do a good job of. Not all attention is _good_ attention. You want to be remembered as someone who made a _positive_ impact.

Which is why what happened at Grillby’s so fucking embarrassing. You weren’t on your best behavior.

The part that really crushes you to dust though? Papyrus is _unbelievably fucking cool_ , and you were too dumb and bitchy to even realize that until you fucked it up. You took him for granted, drinking and vibing and basking at the edge of his awesome glow. Telling yourself he’s weird and outrageous and over the top, that there must be some kind of catch, a downside, some kind of seedy underbelly to offset the fact that he’s what you always wished you could be.

Memorable.

You’re still trying to figure out the exact point where the book transitions from goop to soup when you hear it.

“I HAVE TO ADMIT THE ADDITION OF THE MELTED STOVE HOOD _DID_ ADD AN EXCITING CRUNCH FACTOR TO THE RESULT! BUT I THINK WE CAN DO BETTER!!”

Oh god, it’s Him. The, uh. Papyrus.

He’s wearing a long, obviously hand-decorated sweater, tight pants or leggings in an indistinct dark color, and…galoshes with stars on them. You didn’t think they made those kind in that size. They’re big enough they make a wibbly sound when he walks. Or at least they do when he pauses for breath, or because the other person is talking.

“NO! YES! MAYBE? I’M _LOOKING_ , ACTUALLY?!”

His voice doesn’t sound like you thought it would.

He’s so….

 _Loud_.

You casually duck behind a bookshelf, following the voice, if not the thread of the conversation. Honestly, trying to imagine what anyone could say between “YES, I TOLD HIM IT WAS FRESH,” and “FOR THE LAST TIME, IT WASN’T THE BEDAZZLER'S FAULT!” is a pretty fascinating puzzle on its own.

Okay, so maybe you’re a little excited to see him again.

Those nights watching Papyrus dance turned out to be one of those things you don’t appreciate until it’s not there anymore. Every time you’d gone home after a night at Grillby’s, your heart and footsteps seemed pounds lighter, slowly descending until your next fix.

You scramble around quietly, doing your best to stay out of sight and listen in. Honestly, you probably don’t need to. Pretty sure everyone in the store and possibly a few outside can hear everything he’s saying. You don’t even know why you’re being like this about it, come to think of it. You can probably just go back to the bar sometimes and pretend nothing happened. It doesn’t have to be awkward. Besides, Papyrus’s brother said he calls off a lot, and maybe...he didn’t tell Grillby. Or Papyrus. Maybe it’ll be fine, you can just _go_. Hang out. Bask.

Maybe the real addict was you all along.

You sigh and shake your head at yourself. Papyrus is off the phone now, or at least you haven’t heard him say anything in a few minutes. And besides, now you’re just acting _weird_. You stand up and turn around…and a wall runs into you.

Your coffee flies onto the floor. You crouch back like a crab next to the spreading mess, looking up at the unexpectedly mobile wall you collided with.

It’s Papyrus, because of _course_ it is. He stares down at you in consternation edged with...delight?

“THIS IS _JUST_ LIKE ONE OF YOUR BABY CARTOONS FOR CHILDREN!” Papyrus caws into the phone he’s…apparently still on. Oh. “NYES, THERE’S AN ANIME SITUATION, I HAVE TO LET YOU GO. YES. YES!! _YES FOR GOODNESS’SAKES_ UNDYNEI _LOVE_ YOUGOOD _BYE_.”

Papyrus tucks his phone away quickly and offers you a massive, gloved hand. His gauzy, star-spangled scarf flutters in an imaginary breeze, or maybe one caused my his grand, sweeping movements. They’re just like when he dances.

His grin _sparkles_.

“HELLO, HUMAN!!” he says brightly, still just kind of...holding his hand out and bending over. “I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS! EXCEPT YOU PROBABLY ALREADY KNOW THAT, SINCE YOU ASKED MY BROTHER ABOUT ME AND IF I WAS ON DRUGS WHICH I’M NOT! SORRY FOR RUNNING INTO YOU WHILE YOU WERE SPYING ON ME!!”

Your mouth opens, but your throat only makes a cracked little squeak. Welp. That answers several questions you had no intention of asking.

“IT’S UNDERSTANDABLE, AFTER ALL!! I AM VERY GREAT! THERE’S A LOT TO SPY ON!!”

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry, I….”

“I’M ALSO REMARKABLY PATIENT!!” Papyrus cries desperately, still bent over with his hand out.

You finally take it, and he helps you stand. You bounce down and back up to pick up the now-empty cup and just sort of…fidget with it.

“I was looking for crock pot books,” you say. Then you bounce down and pick that up, too. Shake it off a little.

“CROCK POT? THEY HAVE BOOKS FOR THAT NOW?”

“I think they have for a while.”

He absorbs that thoughtfully...for about half a second.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN MY COOKING CLUB?!” He tilts his skull at you. He looks so frigging cool up close. His bony face moves so fluidly, and there’s some kind of...tint? To it? Also some flecks of glitter even though he’s not wearing anything with glitter on it. “WE COULD USE SOME FRESH… PERSPECTIVE.”

You’re still gaping at him while your brain tries to catch up. That is...a lot to process in less than two minutes.

“Cooking club?”

“YES! CURRENT MEMBERSHIPS INCLUDE BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO MYSELF AND MY GOOD AND COOL FRIEND UNDYNE! AND ONE OTHER SECRET FRIEND WHO NEVER COMES BUT IS ALWAYS THERE IN OUR HEARTS! MORE IMPORTANTLY, WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT WE’D HAVE SO MUCH IN COMMON!!!”

“Who?”

“US!! I WAS ALSO LOOKING FOR BOOKS INVOLVING RECIPES THAT MIGHT…TAKE A WHILE?? AND DON'T INVOLVE OPEN FLAME?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess we have...learning how to food in common?” He blinks his sockets at you, which makes you jump and your heart beat hard for absolutely no reason. “Were you talking to Undyne just then?” you blurt. Papyrus being quiet apparently makes you nervous. Look at that, learning each others’ habits already.

“NnnYES! SHE’S VERY ENTHUSIASTIC. SPEAKING OF WHICH…. THIS _CROCK POT_ SOUNDS LIKE A WORTHY OPPONENT FOR HER!!”

“Well...” you clear your throat. The book feels pretty sticky, so...you should probably just buy it. And hopefully get a chance to tell the clerk about your accident….oop…oh. Here they come now, actually. Of course they’d have noticed.

Also, Papyrus is still talking. Whoops. You both sort of wiggle over so they can throw down some paper towels and walk on them, watching you both with an even, bland look on their face as they knead the stain with their sneakered feet. You mouth a _sorry_ at them, but their expression remains the same. Again, Papyrus is still talking.

“…NOTHING CAN _STOP_ HER, OF COURSE…BUT A CROCK POT MIGHT SLOW HER DOWN!!”

“Papyrus, right?”

“YES!!” He screams, delighted.

“You’re saying...you want to hang out? With me?”

His smile sharpens, mostly by virtue of his teeth becoming closer together. His sockets narrow too, until he looks like of...hmm. Snarky? Crafty?

“I’M GIVING YOU THE OPPORTUNITY TO BECOME A FRIEND BASED ON A FIRM AND NORMAL FOUNDATION OF A SHARED INTEREST, INSTEAD OF A STALKER WHO STALKS SKELETONS!” You could bounce a quarter off that grin. “IT TURNS OUT YOU WERE UP FOR A PROMOTION THIS WHOLE TIME! DO YOU HAVE AN EMOTIONAL RESPONSE TO THIS SHOCKING YET ULTIMATELY FORESEEABLE TURN OF EVENTS?”

“I’m, um...” The seconds pass.

“THAT’S TRUE!” Papyrus agrees brightly. In true anime spirit, he tries again. “WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN MY COOKING CLUB?”

You know what?

“Yes. I would like to join your cooking club.”

“FANTASTIC!!” He claps his gloved hands together, which makes a remarkable sort of noise. A complicated little poff-clack. “PUT YOUR NUMBER IN MY PHONE, AND I’LL SEND YOU THE DIRECTIONS.”

“Now?”

“NNNYES!! YOU MIGHT WANT TO ALSO PUT YOUR NAME IN THERE SINCE YOU SEEM TO HAVE FORGOTTEN TO TELL ME, BUT THAT’S OKAY!!”

You tell him. And also put it in his phone when he shoves it at you insistently. Along with your name.

“EXCELLENT!! WE’LL MET THERE IN, OH, SAY, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE? HALF AN HOUR?”

“Wait, now?”

“YES!!” He’s smiling, but his sockets are…desperate? Pleading? Why?

“Wait, _where_ is this happening?”

“MY HOUSE!!” he cries. “AND I'D LIKE TO KEEP IT THAT WAY, SO EVEN THOUGH I’M BEING SLIGHTLY DISINGENUOUS BECAUSE YOU SORT OF MAYBE DESERVE IT AFTER THE MEAN GOSSIPY DRUGS THING? I ACTUALLY?? REALLY APPRECIATE THE HELP!”

He turns on his heel and starts to stalk away, then turns back just as abruptly. An enormous outflung hand points at you suddenly enough to make you jump.

“DO YOU REQUIRE THE SERVICES OF MY CAR???”

“Um,” you say, trying to sort that out. The now-smirking bookstore clerk waggles their eyebrows at you. For some inexplicable reason, it makes your face hot.

“Oh!” You half -yell at Papyrus. “No, I have a car! See you soon!”

“OKAYTHATSOUNDSFANTASTICBYEEEEEEEE!” he says, and the door closes behind him. He's still going _EEEEE_ outside.

“Wow,” you say softly, and the clerk snorts and hunches their shoulders.

You lift the coffee-spattered cookbook.

“I’ll, um, buy this?” you say, smiling hesitantly. “I’m sorry?”

The clerk does their snort-hunch laugh again, pulls a phone out of their pocket and types on it quickly, nodding their head at the counter and leading you toward it. Halfway there, they hold it up near their shoulder.

“That’s actually the least amount of cleaning I’ve had to do after he comes here,” a tinny robot voice informs you.


	3. Just A Dash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [The Flaming Lips - She Don't Use Jelly](https://youtu.be/cvfxKbpoxRE)

When you pull up to the address Papyrus put into your phone, he’s doing what appears to be a combination of rajio taiso and modern dance on the gravel paths dotted with riotous greenery he has instead of a front lawn. Once he sees you pulling up, however, he changes to some kind of odd, pointing-assisted boxstep that you eventually realize is him indicating that you should, in fact, park in his driveway. Your windows are rolled up, but you can still hear him fine.

“YES!! RIGHT NEXT TO MY CAR, WHICH YOU’LL SEE IS A LOVELY RED CABRIOLET THAT EVERYONE WISHES THEIR CAR LOOKED LIKE BUT IT’S MINE! OKAY!! GOOD!! YOU’RE HERE!!”

He seems like he was possibly unsure that that would be the case. Surprised, it warms your heart that he was waiting for you...and had some degree of emotional investment in whether or not you would come.

“I’m here!” you say as you shut your car door, grinning with a strange elation. He’s so enthusiastic, it’s contagious. “Am I the first to show up?”

“YES!” He grins...nervously? “UNDYNE IS RUNNING A LITTLE LATE, ACTUALLY.” He sighs. “IT’S NOT UNUSUAL. SHE JUST MOVED IN WITH ALPHYS, AND NOW THEY’RE OFTEN...BUSY,” he says with narrowed sockets, like they’re up to something awfully suspicious. It makes you chuckle, so he aims the suspicious look at you.

Then his face falls.

“I HAVE ABRUPT AND PROBLEMATIC NEWS. IT HAS OCCURRED TO ME THAT _I_ DON’T ACTUALLY OWN A CROCK POT,” he informs you bluntly.

For some reason you lift the bag with the crock pot book in it, and you and Papyrus stare at it together. Then something amazing occurs to _you_. Finally, your procrastination has paid off!

“That’s actually fine, because mine’s still in the trunk of my car in a box! We can use that for the, um, cooking club meeting.”

You jump when Papyrus’s big hands dart out and grab your shoulders, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t lean in or anything, but you feel sweat prickle your upper lip a bit nonetheless. His fingers are...kinda hard.

“I _MUST_ SOLVE YOUR HOROSCOPE AT SOME POINT,” he says, “BECAUSE THAT IS _FAR_ TOO SERENDIPITOUS TO BE MERE COINCIDENCE!! DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?? THERE WILL BE A BOOKLET!! WE WILL _READ_ IT!! _YOU_ HAVE AN ENTIRE _BOOK-_ WITHOUT-DIMINUTIVES-ATTACHED AND WE WILL READ THAT TOO!! YOU’RE SO…..”

You gape at him in antici…...pation.

“PREPARED!!” he yells, as if it’s the highest praise he’s capable of.

He pulls back and does a big clap, then flaps his hands at you impatiently until you scurry over and open your trunk. Papyrus hauls the box up onto one shoulder easily, and you notice a faint orange and midnight blue iridescence tinge his skull when you make a little joke about “building strong bones.” Is it like blushing, maybe? It looks wicked cool.

He continues to narrate the journey up to his front door and into his house, which is surprisingly slow but does contain a great deal of information about perennials versus annuals, and something about an annoying dog you don’t quite catch because he’s mostly saying it to the door handle he’s struggling with. There’s not much room to try helping, or to ask if he wants you to. He manages it eventually, muttering something about skin still being overrated.

You try not to stare at his house on the way in, but it’s a fascinating juxtaposition of both the expected and the un. The carpet is blue. Like, the whole thing. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen that, at least not in anyone’s _house_. Maybe a movie theater or two. You’d say something about how cool it is if Papyrus wasn’t still talking, although now it’s about a time he made lasagna that was crunchy and tastes great sprinkled on popcorn. He explains his use of the present tense is because he still has some in a shaker in the pantry.

There are some cool paintings of what appear to be just disembodied bones, and a surprising amount of things shaped like other things. A table with hot dogs for legs. A lamp shaped like a lamp-shaped kid. A bowl with an unopened bag of chi(s?)ps in it shaped like a fish standing on its tail with its mouth open. A chair shaped like a hollowed-out orb egg with a cushion inside like you saw once from a 1960s catalog.

From what you can tell so far, Papyrus’s natural habitat is about as weird as he seemed to be when you first saw him dancing in his outfits at the bar. Which was kind of a tall order to fill. Right before the turn into the next room there’s a glass-fronted hutch full of figurines and what appears to be Mettaton memorabilia (Mettamabilia), but the hutch is either painted wood or plastic, shaped like an upended race car.

When you get to the kitchen/dining room part, you stop dead. Papyrus keeps going, setting the box on the countertop and turning with his hands on his hips.

“...AND IT WASN’T EVEN _MY_ HAIR!! BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE ANY!! HELLO, SANS. I SEE YOU’RE ALREADY EATING.”

You and Papyrus’s brother just kinda stare at each other for a long, awkward minute. He’s holding a bowl of cereal under his chin, paused in the action of scooping it into his open skeleton...mouth? There’s stuff going on inside between the teeth, hard to tell what. Since the chair he’s sitting in is sideways to the table, you can also see that he’s wearing cutoff sweatpants with a big hole near the crotch, and a half-zipped hoodie without anything under it. His feet...bones….are bare, and only the scary-long tips of the...toe parts….touch the floor.

“Heya,” Sans says, aplomb swiftly recovered. “Long time no see, huh?” He winks, finishes taking his bite of drippy cereal, then wipes his chin on his sleeve.

“IT CERTAINLY HAS!! DON’T WORRY, WE ALREADY COVERED THE I’M-NOT-ON-DRUGS-HOW-RUDE-OF-YOU PART! I ALSO OFFERED THEM A PROMOTION TO FRIENDSHIP APPLICANT FROM THEIR...PREVIOUS STATUS.”

“Yeah, we just...ripped that band-aid right off,” you add hoarsely, and Sans lets out a surprised chuckle. Then he eats more cereal, watching you speculatively. “You guys live together, huh?” You try, accepting the awkwardness you feel like you earned.

“WHEN SANS DOESN’T LIVE AT GRILLBY’S?” You see a different cast of iridescence slide over Sans’s features like they had with Papyrus’s before, so yeah, it seems like they’re blushing or flustered in some way. It took you quite a while to figure out the lighter or deeper casts to Grillby’s….fire?…are also a kind of expression. “YES. SUPPOSEDLY. NOT THAT SANS ACTUALLY DOES ANYTHING AROUND HERE.”

Sans seems unaffected by his brother’s criticism, takes another massive chomp of cereal. You’re pretty sure that’s a serving spoon. Fits right in his very wide mouth, though. He seems about to say something else when his skull suddenly perks up like he’s listening. Maybe his skeleton senses are tingling or something.

“Cooking club?” he asks quickly.

“OF COURSE!! IT’S THE PERFECT GATEWAY DRUG...TO FRIENDSHIP!!”

You chew your lips, abashed, but Sans stands up and shuffles away, cereal bowl still under his chin. He eats a bite, then turns and heads into the living room.

“SIGH,” Papyrus says instead of sighing. “ALTHOUGH I SUPPOSE I CAN’T BLAME HIM.”

You’re hearing something too now, a distant thrumming. It gets louder, until it coheres into music along with the vrooming screech of tires.

“Is that, um. Undyne?”

“NYES,” he sighs, not unhappily. “SANS USUALLY PREFERS TO CLEAR THE FIELD IF HE’S DOING LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE WHEN SHE COMES OVER.” A browbone lifts. “THAT ISN’T THE CASE AS OFTEN AS YOU’D THINK.”

There is a cacophony of parking noises, then someone starts bellowing as they approach the house.

“PAPYRUS!! DID YOU REALLY FIND ANOTHER MEMBER???”

The door flies open just before Papyrus reaches it, and the flurry of whatever they’re doing reminds you a lot of the limb-and-tin-can-strewn tornadoes common in old fashioned cartoons. You take a few cautious steps back, then notice Sans isn’t actually in here. You really thought he came in here. Weird. Eventually it calms, and you see that “Undyne” is not entirely unfamiliar. She does not seem like the kind of person who’d help found a cooking club. However, you _are_ pretty sure you’ve seen her on several announcement things pertaining to ~ _Monsters Are Friends, Not Food_ _~_ or whatever the heck they’re calling the interspecies integration campaign these days.

Papyrus is buddies with a famous monster, and that….is cool. And who knows, maybe she _is_ a cooking expert or something. You’re learning many monsters are not precisely as they seem.

“UNDYNE!! THIS IS THAT HUMAN I WAS TELLING YOU WAS ALWAYS STARING AT ME DANCING AT GRILLBY’S EVERY TUESDAY AND THURSDAY AFTER CLASSES!!”

Not much you can say to that other than “Hello.” Undyne leans in toothily, one noodly-wiry arm still hooked around Papyrus’s scarf-covered cervical vertebrae. He only winces a little, and it has an accustomed look to it. She’s even taller than him, has an eyepatch and bright red….hair? Fins? And an oceany smell, although it’s not unpleasant. Like a candle that's "ocean" scented, maybe. Her scales are bright and clean, a blue shade that clashes with the carpet impressively.

“Hi!!! Wow!! You’re Papyrus’s Stalker, huh??? You are WAY better looking than I thought you’d be!”

“I, um.” You clear your throat, but your voice is still kinda weird. “I got a promotion,” you try.

“Wow, really?” Undyne throws her head back and cackles, then her single yellow eye snaps back open to spear you with an evaluating look. “Actually, that makes sense. I’ve met him. Are you ready to crock the shit out of some pots???”

“Yeah!” Her enthusiasm is contagious, like Papyrus’s. It also helps with the awkwardness. “I brought my own.”

“THEY BROUGHT A _BOOK_!” Papyrus adds. There’s something like the desperation your remember from when he initially asked you to come hovering around his sockets again. A little bit of sweat going on there, too. It’s the same color as his blushing. “A BOOK WITH RECIPES SPECIFICALLY FOR CROCK POTS WHICH INVOLVE NEITHER OPEN FLAMES NOR FIRE OF ANY KIND!!!”

“NNNGAHHAHA!” Undyne laughs, then unhooks Papyrus, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him grunt. Without further ado, she stomps into the kitchen. Sans’s timely (if not hasty) exit is starting to make sense, but you’re down for whatever this is going to be. As long as you don’t get beat up or anything. You’re kind of a wimp. Seems like it’s shaping up to be fun, and Papyrus appears heartened by your encouraging grin.

You find yourself in the position of booklet director as well as recipe chooser. Turns out no one had thought to buy anything specific to actually _cook_ , and the only thing that seemed viable was a pork shoulder in the fridge that Papyrus says he got because it was “THE BIGGEST MEAT THEY HAD.”

Undyne’s jokes about “biggest meat” Papyrus has had are lengthy and numerous enough for you to find a cutting board and a knife that lets you cut the meat into chunks, which the booklet claims may cook more quickly than a whole roast placed inside.

“There’s a bone in this,” you report, and Papyrus and Undyne rush over to witness.

“A _BONE_??” Papyrus gasps, then grabs the top of Undyne’s head around her topknot and wiggles it until she looks slightly dizzy. “MY SON!!! EVERYONE, QUICK!! CONGRATULATE ME!!”

“the meat?” you giggle. “isn’t that cannibalism?”

“NOT IF WE’RE NOT EATING THE BONE!!”

“Oh, okay.” You look at the still-meat-covered-bone, chunks messily removed and stuck in the crock pot in a jiggly meatpile. “Do you want me to do anything special with it?”

Papyrus leans in even further, narrowing his sockets. Undyne mimics him, both of them scrutinizing it with exaggerated seriousness you’re not entirely sure _is_ all that serious. It’s….actually kind of hard to tell with them.

“COOK HIM!!” Papyrus yells suddenly, straightening up. “NYEH HEH HEH HEH!!! IF HE CAN TAKE THE HEAT, HE CAN STAY IN MY KITCHEN!!”

Undyne slaps his back hard enough to stagger him.

“That’s my boy!!! Trial by FIRE! Or hot clay thingie, I guess. Wait, does that make me his grandmother?”

“GOD-GRANDMOTHER TWICE REMOVED,” Papyrus answers promptly as you toss the bone into the crock pot as well. Then Undyne (surprisingly gently) shoulders you aside, clutching a plastic bag close to her chest. She makes a show of rummaging, then produces several small glass bottles with a flourish.

“I brought my OWN seasonings!!! Just in case, since Papyrus is kind of a puss-puss when it comes to SERIOUSLY EXTREME FLAVOR!!” She screws the top off a bottle of cumin en polvo, then just upends it into the pot as Papyrus guides you in backing slowly away.

“Wow.”

Undyne looks over her shoulder so abruptly her topknot whips around and whacks her in the face. She ignores it and lifts a fist to crush an invisible orange.

“NGaHahahHA!! _Wow_ is _right_!!” Another bottle, this time of a mysteriously paprikish orange powder, also finds itself emptied onto the meat chunks in the slow cooker.

“So, is this going to be….carnitas, or more like pulled pork?”

“IT SURE IS!!” Undyne hollers, emptying a few more jars. You make a mental note to buy both a bottle of barbecue sauce _and_ some salsa, determination to be made after smelling the result of whatever this is.

“OKAY!! It’s seasoned! What do we do now?”

“You put the lid on.”

She does.

“Now what? Do we throw it around a bit?? Stick it in a volcano?”

You consult the booklet _and_ the recipe book, just to make sure.

“We leave it alone for twelve hours.” Undyne’s face falls.

“This takes TWELVE HOURS??? Can’t you just...turn it up?”

“We could, yeah. The booklet says that on high, it only takes….between five and _eight_ hours.”

Undyne is crestfallen. It’s possible her ponytail literally droops.

“What are we gonna do until _then_?” she almost-whines.

Papyrus draws himself up and takes a sliding, saucy step forward, a hand to his chest as his sockets narrow with pride.

“ _I_!! THE GREAT PAPYRUS!! VOTE! FOR! WE-SHOULD-GO- _DANCING!!_ ”

Undyne claws her hand again, then uses it to palm the top of Papyrus’s skull like a basketball. Then she slams their faces together and just….screams.

“OW!! I’M ALSO EXCITED BY MY SUGGESTION!! I’LL TAKE THAT AS A YES!” he says hurriedly.

“A DOUBLE DATE!!!” Undyne hollers right in his face. The suggestion makes your face hot.

“I’M SURE YOU WILL!” Papyrus garbles out, then takes Undyne by the shoulders and firmly separates their clonking heads. “BUT, WELL, DON’T YOU NEED TO HELP ALPHYS GET READY? I’M SURE SHE’LL WANT TO WEAR THE--” Undyne turns on her heel and stalks away, leaving the spice bottles where they lie which is on the floor now, and runs out of the house.

“DOUBLE DAAAAAAATE--!” She hollers, exiting as if pursued by a bear. Actually you’re not entirely sure the bear would be the one pursuing, in this case. Wow.

Papyrus lets out a gusty sigh, shoulders relaxing as the door slams shut behind Undyne. He rubs his forehead, frowning a little, then turns to you.

“DO YOU STILL HAVE ALL YOUR LIMBS?”

You check.

“Yep. They’re even attached, see?” You smile and make your arms do a noodly thing. Papyrus takes his hand off his owie and grins, then puts his hands on his hips.

“NYEH HEH HEH!! THAT’S QUITE A PREVIEW OF COMING ATTRACTIONS!!” You blush, then realize he probably means the dancing you apparently are all about to do while the pork chunks cook. “SHE ISN’T ALWAYS QUITE SO...FORCEFUL,” he continues, sounding sheepish. “I THINK SHE WANTED TO IMPRESS YOU. AND ALSO PERHAPS...UM.”

“Oh, geez,” you say quietly. “To make sure I don’t have any gross stalker ideas?” Papyrus shrugs, but then something else occurs to you. “But...why would she say it’s a double _date_ , then? If she was worried I’m a creeper?”

“BECAUSE IT IS?” Papyrus caws, tilting his skull curiously. “OH, THAT’S RIGHT. FOR MONSTERS A DATE IS ANYTHING WHERE YOU GO DO SOMETHING TOGETHER. AFTER ALL, I WENT ON A DATE WITH FRISK WHEN THEY WERE ONLY EIGHT!! AND PARENTS TAKE THEIR CHILDREN ON DATES ALL THE TIME.”

Um.

“Frisk?”

“YES?”

“Like, _the_ Frisk?”

“NNYES?”

“You know the Frisk?”

“WELL, I JUST CALL THEM FRISK? I ASSUMED YOU DID AS WELL, BUT-”

“Yeah, but I’m not like, friends with the Ambassador! I didn’t know you _knew_ them!! Do you think you could intr--”

You cover your mouth before you finish that. You don’t want to seem creepy. Well, too late for that maybe, but…

Papyrus is staring at you like he stared at the pork bone he recently adopted and then cooked.

“THEY DIDN’T INTRODUCE THEMSELF?” Papyrus _tsks_ and shakes his head. “PERHAPS I GRADUATED THEM TOO EARLY FROM THEIR ETIQUETTE COURSES!”

“Are you like...their dad or something?” You ask weakly.

“THIS IS GETTING AWKWARD, AND NO??? THEY’RE A HUMAN AND I’M A SKELETON AND I DON’T HAVE CHILDREN OTHER THAN THE PORK BONE I JUST ADOPTED?”

“Sorry!” you say, rubbing your flustered face. “I mean….wait, what do you mean they didn’t introduce themself? When??”

Papyrus takes a minute and just stares at you.

“FRISK WORKS AT THE BOOKSTORE WE WERE LITERALLY JUST IN EARLIER TODAY,” he explains. “YOU WERE TALKING TO THEM. THEY’RE THE ONE WHO TOLD ME YOU STARTED GOING THERE ALL THE TIME INSTEAD OF GRILLBY’S.”

“The one who cleaned up the coffee I spilled all over myself.”

“YES. ALTHOUGH TO BE FAIR THAT WAS KIND OF ALSO MY FAULT.”

You sit down on Papyrus’s lumpy green couch. It’s really comfortable. After a few minutes, Papyrus comes over and sits down sort of near but not too near you. He waits a few minutes, too.

“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE,” he caws softly, if not quietly.

You turn your head and gape at him. He sweats nervously at the wall.

“I KNOW IT’S VERY OVERWHELMING...LY AWESOME THAT MY FRIENDS ARE SO COOL AND LOUD AND VIOLENT AND MY BROTHER IS WEIRD AND HALF NAKED AND MY COUCH IS OLD AND VERY COMFORTABLE AND MAYBE SOMETIMES I TALK TOO MUCH BUT??? DON’T, ERR, DON’T TAKE IT TOO HARD!! I ASSURE YOU, HAVE VERY HIGH STANDARDS AND, I, I REALLY...”

“Papyrus?”

“NYES?” He grins brightly, still mostly not looking at you.

“Did you really ask Frisk about me?”

Now he looks at you. The iridescent color’s back on his face, which is even sweatier. That’s okay. You’re sweaty too even though it’s not all that hot in here. It just feels like it.

“MAKING FRIENDS IS CHALLENGING, BUT YOU SHOULD NEVER LET THAT SORT OF THING STOP YOU!!” He says instead of confirming the thing he already told you he did. “I’M SURE THERE IS NOTHING YOU WOULD RATHER DO IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE THAN GO OUT DANCING WITH ME AND POSSIBLY ALPHYS AND UNDYNE IF THEY EVER GET UN-BUSY WHICH MAY NOT BE THE CASE, BUT I!! WOULD COMPLETELY UNDERSTAND IF IT TURNED OUT YOUR LEGS WERE SUDDENLY BROKEN AND ONLY WORKED LONG ENOUGH TO DRIVE YOU BACK HOME.”

“Um, so.” You clear your throat. “I had fun just then. And Undyne only beat you up, not me.”

Papyrus’s shoulders relax slightly. “I SORT OF WISH SHE WOULDN’T BEAT _ME_ UP,” he gripes, grinning happily, “BUT AT THIS POINT I FEEL LIKE WE HAVE A GOOD RHYTHM GOING, AND I’D HATE TO THROW IT OFF!” His grin flags slightly. “I HAVE PLENTY OF FRIENDS, YOU KNOW!” He offers unprompted. “I’M VERY POPULAR!! BUT YOU CAN ALWAYS USE MORE, RIGHT?”

“Well, I suck at making friends,” you admit heavily, and he seems hearteningly surprised by that. “You’re the first friend I’ve made since I moved here, and it’s only because you’re nice and popular, and I’m creepy and you feel ba-”

“THAT’S NOT IT!!” he rushes out. “THAT’S...” He’s sweating at the wall again. “I MAY HAVE EXAGGERATED THE POPULARITY SITUATION. NOT! THAT MY FRIENDS AREN’T, UM, AMAZING!! AND OCCASIONALLY FAMOUS! BUT THERE….AREN’T AS MANY OF THEM, AS, I MIGHT….”

“I’m really surprised by that,” you say quietly, and now it’s Papyrus’s turn to part his teeth at you. “Really. You’re...super nice and cool.” You leave off the part where you start talking about how you don’t deserve it, since this isn’t about you. “You really...have trouble?” you try instead. His face gets less sweaty and more….actually-serious, maybe?

“SOMETIMES PEOPLE DON’T LIKE ME,” Papyrus informs you plainly. “AND BY SOMETIMES I MEAN MOST TIMES. AND SOMETIMES I THINK ABOUT THAT AND GET SAD, BUT THEN I REMEMBER ANOTHER FACT!! WHICH IS THAT IT’S OKAY BECAUSE I’D RATHER BE DISLIKED FOR WHO I AM THAN HAVE PEOPLE LIKE SOME MADE-UP VERSION OF ME THAT ISN’T...ME!!”

“I don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t like you-” you start, but Papyrus seems frustrated by that.

“IT’S BECAUSE I’M LOUD AND SAY THINGS PEOPLE RATHER I DIDN’T BECAUSE I NOTICE THINGS PEOPLE RATHER I DIDN’T AND EVEN WHEN I DON’T MEAN IT LIKE IT’S A BAD THING IT’S SOMETHING THAT BOTHERS THEM ABOUT THEMSELVES,” Papyrus says impatiently, then takes a deep breath. “AND IF SOMEONE ASKS ME WHAT I THINK I TELL THEM, AND FOR SOME REASON THAT’S WRONG TOO. ALSO, THE….IT’S...I WON’T _PRETEND_ NOT TO LIKE THINGS!!” he cries, throwing up his hands. “I _LIKE_ LIKING THINGS!! _THINGS_ ARE _NICE_!! AND _COOL_!!”

“I like things,” you offer hesitantly. You certainly like Papyrus.

He grins like you just gave him a puppy. Or maybe something he likes better, considering a mysterious dog is annoying him.

“WE CERTAINLY ARE A PAIR OF COOL DUDES WHO LIKE _THINGS_!!” he announces, slapping a….femur, you suppose, with a muffled clack.

“I think you’re cool,” he blushes again, briefly, “but I don’t think I’m...um. Very cool. Do you have coolness etiquette courses? Coolness club, maybe?” you ask, inspired. Then you cringe a little inside, remembering some things. Events. People. Your smile shrinks. “I guess it’s not very cool to say you _want_ to be cool, huh?”

Papyrus tilts his head at you like a white raven, black sockets suddenly both ageless and wise.

“EVERYONE WANTS PEOPLE TO THINK THEY’RE COOL,” he caws. “I SUPPOSE SAYING SO MAKES SOME PEOPLE THINK YOU’RE NOT? BUT IT DOESN’T. I’M STILL COOL, EVEN IF I ALSO WANT TO BE.” He sighs instead of just saying _sigh_. “IT WAS...NICE TO HAVE SOMEONE PAYING ATTENTION TO MY COOL DANCING!”

“I like your outfits a lot, too,” you admit, blushing.

“NYEH HEH HEH, OF COURSE YOU DO, BUT THEY ARE _MY_ OUTFITS! TO INCREASE YOUR COOLNESS LEVEL, YOU SHOULD FIND THE OUTFITS THAT ARE _YOUR_ OUTFITS. I CAN SHOW YOU HOW TO DO _THAT_!! OR YOU CAN _MAKE_ THEM!! I DO THAT, TOO!”

You squirm.

You like making outfits. Or at least, you used to. Other people never seemed to like them, though. You scratch absently at your chest, flustered by the possibility that maybe all your staring at Papyrus has all sorts of specific reasons behind it. Awkward.

“STEP ONE OF FINDING AN OUTFIT!” You look back at Papyrus, and he seems oddly...determined. “THINK OF SOMETHING YOU LIKE! _WHAT DO YOU LIKE!!!???_ ” he accuses suddenly, leaning toward you.

“Flowers?” you blurt without thinking, then clear your throat because it’s the truth. Also not a very cool thing to like.

“THEN GET A SHIRT THAT SAYS ‘I LIKE FLOWERS’!” He blinks thoughtfully. “OR YOU CAN JUST MAKE A SHIRT YOU ALREADY _HAVE_ SAY IT! THEN YOU DON’T HAVE TO WAIT!! OR PLAN! SHARPIES MOSTLY WORK FOR THAT!! AS LONG AS YOU GO SLOW, THE FABRIC WON’T BUNCH AND MAKE THE LINES ALL DOTTED AND WIGGLY.”

You look at his dotted and wiggly self-decorated sweater. Those were probably supposed to be stars, like the ones on his wobbly galoshes.

“I think if you use a piece of cardboard inside, you could maybe tack it down? Stretch it so can’t be bunchy.”

Papyrus’s expression goes soft with wonderment, like that’s the best idea he’s ever heard.

“I _LOVE_ CARDBOARD,” he says breathily. “HOW DID YOU KNOW?”

“I didn’t!” you admit, laughing. “But I like it too, because you can make it into-”

“SO MANY USEFUL THINGS!! he finishes for you, but not like an interruption. Like he’s just that excited about cardboard.

“YOU’RE LIKE A BOOKLET,” Papyrus announces.

“What?” You chuckle, secretly pleased. Papyrus likes booklets. You don’t know why though. “Why am I like a booklet?” It sounds like a riddle you remember from a kid’s book, _Why is a raven like a writing desk?_ Plenty of people made up answers, even though it wasn’t _supposed_ to have one. Papyrus is a lot like that.

“BECAUSE YOU HAVE _IDEAS_ INSIDE!” he cries delightedly, and your face burns hot. No one’s ever accused you of having something like _that_ inside you before.

Ideas.

“I guess...I’m not use to people who want to hear them,” you mumble shyly. For some reason, Papyrus takes this news extremely seriously.

“WELL, DO YOU SAY THEM?”

“huh?”

“THE IDEAS,” he adds quickly. “DO YOU SAY THE IDEAS AND PEOPLE DON’T LIKE THEM? DO THEY TELL YOU TO STOP?”

Oh geez.

“I guess I don’t say them,” you admit quietly. “I’m worried people won’t...” You press your lips together. “Sometimes people act in a way that you can _tell_ they don’t want to hear your ideas, because they already decided they’re stupid. No matter what they actually are. Because _you_ said it, and _you’re_ stupid.” You rub your nose angrily. “Even if someone else says the same thing.” Even if someone else takes that idea and runs with it, and everyone loves it because _they_ did it….even if it was _your_ idea…. You stop that line of thought, take a deep breath. “So _you_ have to be different to make anyone ever listen, but I don’t… know _how_ to be different. I’m just me, but people don’t...”

You look up, embarrassed to have gone on about yourself so long, but Papyrus has a strange, thoughtful look on his face.

“YOU DON’T NEED PERMISSION TO BE YOURSELF,” Papyrus explains, much slower than his usual clipped pace. “YOU ALREADY ARE, EVEN WHEN PEOPLE SAY YOU’RE NOT. AND NO ONE IS BETTER AT IT THAN YOU, BECAUSE THEY CAN’T BE.”

“You’re not like what I expected,” you say before thinking about it. And for some reason that makes him look at the floor. You join him in the floor-staring contest, chagrined. Maybe that’s not exactly a nice thing to say, but it’s not mean either...you thought….

“I’M NEVER WHAT ANYONE EXPECTS,” Papyrus says, not quietly, but still somber. “I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT’S _MY_ FAULT, OR WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT IT.”

Surprising yourself, you reach out and take his hand. It’s as hard as it seemed when he grabbed your shoulders earlier, unyielding as something inanimate that nevertheless feels strikingly alive. He looks away from the floor, over at you expectantly.

You give his hand a squeeze, then smile as big as you used to.

“We’re going to go _dancing_ about it.” Squeeze. “Will you help me get ready?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oopsie doopsie  
> turns out this is gonna be 3 of 4.  
> Also probably gonna be a little series. In other words, it'll have at least one sequel work.


	4. Don't Lick The Bowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Queen – Don’t Stop Me Now](https://youtu.be/HgzGwKwLmgM)

“I DON’T THINK I’VE SEEN THAT TYPE OF FLOWER,” Papyrus says, glancing over at the shirt you’re laboriously decorating.

“This one’s a star,” you inform him. “I decided to mix it up.”

Papyrus’s shirt-making supplies are quite generous in selection. He claimed to have them on hand ‘for emergencies like this one’ as well as ‘for fun and profit.’ Either way, you’re definitely having a ball partaking of the smorgasbord. There’s something about Papyrus’s enthusiasm that’s contagious, and it helps that his enthusiasm seems to have a lower body count than Undyne’s.

“INVENTING A NEW TYPE OF FLOWER IS A VERY RESPECTABLE PROFESSION!!” Papyrus continues. “I KNOW SOMEONE WHO DID THAT ONCE.”

“Wow, really?”

“YES!! SCIENCE IS A VERY TRICKY THING...” He trails off, frowning and leaning in toward his own design. He’s steadying one of his hands with the other, using a squeezy-bottle of thick paint to create a raised image of...something. He’s unlidded several small tupperwares full of sequins, felt flowers, rhinestones, puffballs, “MISCELLANEOUS”, and giant ‘glitter’ that’s shaped like things. There are several marker-ish paint pens, one of them in an eye-searing shade of neon orange more commonly seen in stripes attached to roadworker’s vests. You’re using one of them to draw your stars, in blue that claims to also be neon but can’t quite hold a candle to the orange. Maybe you should--

“That looks real sharp, dude.”

The low, amused rumble out of nowhere startles a thin squeak from you. Suddenly Sans’s head is over his brother’s broad shoulder, gazing down at Papyrus’s creation. He’s not that much taller standing than his brother is sitting. Papyrus seems more than used to it, and doesn’t look away or stop what he’s doing as he chastises Sans.

“SANS!! DON’T START YOUR _THING_ JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE SOMEONE HERE WHO HASN’T BUILT UP THEIR TOLERANCE YET! I’M UTTERLY EMBROILED IN FORGING MORTAL FRIENDSHIP, FAR TOO BUSY TO YELL AT _YOU_ FOR BAD PUNS!!”

Puns?

You look at Papyrus’s shirt. Ohhhh. Those are knives. It’s like a _cooking_ scene or something.

“You should put me eating a hot dog on there,” Sans suggests, one of his eye sockets slipping shut. Papyrus ignores him, but Sans is looking at you. No, he’s…. _giving_ you a look.

You can’t pinpoint any special quality to it, nothing...visible at least. But you feel like you’ve got something to measure up to. You remember that thing Sans said before you knew they were brothers. That last night at the bar. There’s something about Papyrus that makes you want to measure up, be a better person or something. That’s when you realize Sans is wondering if you’re trying to get in his brother’s pants.

The second that occurs to you, Sans makes a face like you and he just had a surprising conversation.

The next, Sans is talking again.

“Welp. I better go put on the monkey suit and get ready ta open the place,” he sighs in a funereal voice, as if he isn’t still grinning lazily. “I can’t wait to see how it uh, what’s that thing you say? Like mouthfeel, but how clothes move?”

“YOU ARE DISGUSTING AND I LOVE YOU,” Papyrus says absently, narrowing his sockets as he leans further over his simmering creation. “IT’S CALLED _THE SWISH_.”

“Yeah, I gotta get swishy,” Sans chuckles, already shuffling towards the door. Which he has to open before being able to exit. He turns back to wink when you narrow your eyes at him, then makes his lazy way out. He doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him.

Papyrus’s bedroom is super cool. He’s got a ton of collections. There are puzzle books, figurines, action figures (their difference from figurines had been explained to you at some length, and now you can boast knowledge involving articulated plastics that you feel like would hold up under a fair bit of challenge. It’s awesome.), things that are shaped like bones, and an additional sub-collection of things that are shaped like _skulls_.

“Your brother’s very, um...”

“HE _IS_ VERY UM,” Papyrus agrees readily. “HE IS ALSO VERY _ERM_ , MODERATELY _UGH_ , AND OCCASIONALLY _I DUNNO_.” His sockets angle up at you briefly, and that shiny iridescence creeps across his cheekbones again. “DON’T LET HIM KNOW I SAID THIS BUT HE IS ALSO. COOL. SOMETIMES,” he yells, then lets out a huff when he looks down again and sees your shirt decorating progress.

“OH MY GOD!!” he yells even louder. You hope it’s a _good_ Oh My God.

You had the idea at first of gluing some of the plastic felty flower things on there, but you like the little flowers, hearts, clouds, skulls, sunglasses (probably), and stars you’re making to go between them so much, you decided to forgo the gluing. After a while, it looks...shockingly good. Too busy to see from far away, but someone close could be startled by seeing those little pattern doodlies are shaped….like _things_.

“THAT IS REMARKABLY GOOD, VERY _YOU_ , EXTREMELY CREATIVE AND I LOVE IT,” Papyrus says mournfully. “MY TONE IS AN INDICATION OF THE POSSIBILITY THERE IS ABSOLUTELY _NO_ WAY YOU WILL FINISH IT BEFORE GRILLBY’S CLOSES.”

“Yeah.” You look down at yours, then at his. “I think yours is probably going to need a while to dry.” You gaze at the multiple layers of thick, sticky paint together. It’s probably a good thing shirts are washable, since you’ve got a feeling it’s soaked through, and part of the cardboard is glued to the inside of the shirt now. You doubt Papyrus would count that as a negative, though.

“I guess there’s nothing wrong with what we’re already wearing?” you offer hesitantly. Then an idea hits you like a bolt of lightning. You grab that neon-orange temptress of a paint marker, glad these dry really quickly compared to what Papyrus is using. His might need to not only dry, but cure for a few days near a slow fire.

“I’ve got it!!”

Dazzled by your own brilliance, your carefully write “W.I.P.” on the left shoulder.

“WHIP?”

“Work in progress!” You make the dots extra big, although it’s doubtful you need to. The blacklight at the bar Papyrus usually dances near will catch that handily, and will be the first thing anyone will see. A disclaimer!

“A DISCLAIMER!” Papyrus exclaimers. “BRILLIANT!! HOW AVANT GARDE! HOW _META_!”

You giggle and blush.

Then you deflate.

“But now it’ll be a lie once I finish it.”

“WELL, YOU COULD ALWAYS NOT FINISH IT?” Papyrus says. “A STRIKING MOMENT IN TIME PRESERVED FOREVER, WHICH IS RIGHT NOW. WELL, TECHNICALLY IT WAS A FEW MINUTES AGO, BUT...OR!! YOU _COULD_ FINISH IT, THEN ADD ANOTHER DISCLAIMER! ASTOUNDING!! LINEAR TIME UNEXPECTEDLY EXPRESSED IN A SINGLE GARMENT!!”

Papyrus’s face grows serious.

“IT’S FANTABULOUS,” he intones decisively. He clenches a gloved fist in front of his chest victoriously.

“Thank you.” You smile down at his new shirt, impressed by the sheer amount of squiggly lines. “I love yours too. It looks like someone threw a grenade, except the grenade was full of spaghetti.”

“GASP!! THAT IS PRECISELY WHAT IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!!” Papyrus’s grin stays where it is, but his sockets angle in a way that you can tell he’s looking at the wall. “WHAT IT WAS EVENTUALLY. SUPPOSED TO BE.”

“Does your shirt have a, um. A journey?”

“IT’S _THRILLED_ YOU ASKED,” Papyrus says, pleased bone ridges above his sockets arching accordingly. “I STARTED WITH FLAMES BECAUSE THEY ARE AUTOMATICALLY COOL.” He points. They do actually look like flames.

“Yeah,” you report.

“THEN I ADDED THE KNIVES BECAUSE I LOVE TO LOOK SHARP,” he quickly clears whatever skeletons have instead of a throat, “AND THEN! THE TABLE GOT A LITTLE CROOKED AND SORT OF REMINDED ME OF THE INEVITABILITY OF CHAOS!! WHEN YOU, ERR, CREATE! ANYTHING! SO I ADDED THE SPAGHETTI GRENADE AND YOU’RE WELCOME.”

“Thank you.”

“MINE WILL NEED TIME TO DRY BUT YOURS IS PROBABLY ALREADY DONE. ARE YOU GOING TO TRY IT ON?”

“Yeah!” you say, reaching up over your head. Then you stop and take the new shirt off its cardboard, and Papyrus uses his super long arm to put the cardboard back with the rest of his cardboard Collection. The change is quick, and you stand to proudly flex and pose in your new, amazingly and partially decorated linear time art Statement shirt.

“YOU LOOK INCREDIBLE. WE SHOULD PROBABLY GO SOON, I CAN ALREADY SMELL THE CUMIN. IT’S LIKE HANGING OUT IN A DELICIOUSLY OVERSEASONED ARMPIT!”

“Wait, already?”

“NYES?”

You pull out your phone and check the time.

“Oh shit,” you say mildly. It’s way later than you thought. “But...wasn’t Sans supposed to open the bar or something?”

Papyrus blushes again, and you wonder if you put your foot in it. If you did, saying anything else will probably just make it worse.

“MY BROTHER IS MERELY FASHIONABLE!!” Papyrus says, standing up and shuffling his long, besocked skeleton feet. You notice his socks tend to slide off the ends of his toes quite a bit, and he bends down to yank them up. “IN THE LATENESS SENSE, AT LEAST. OTHERWISE MOST OF HIS FASHION COMES FROM GRILLBY. ARE YOU READY?”

You look down at yourself. You stick your old shirt in your pocket, although you’ll probably leave it in the car when you go in the bar.

“Yep.”

“OKAY!! WE’LL, ER, MEET AT GRILLBY’S? YOU KNOW THE WAY FROM HERE?”

***

You do in fact know the way, and the scenery is growing indigo blue in the post-sunset haze of later-than-you-thought by the time you pull up behind Papyrus’s car. It’s hard to concentrate on parallel parking with his pose on the hood of his own vehicle distracting you, but you manage. You don’t have to worry about greetings, since Papyrus is already explaining the purpose and intended impact of his pose as he makes an enormous, exaggeratedly gallant gesture.

The gesture also incidentally opens the door to ~~**GRILLBY**~~ **’Sans Bar and Grill(by’s)** , your former and hopefully future usual spot.

The place is bouncing, and you immediately see Alphys and Undyne snagged a table right next to Papyrus’s usual dancing spot for you. A rush of wibbly welcome-feelings goes through you, and you relax some tension in your shoulders you didn’t entirely realize had been there until it leaves.

You have to admit you’d been a little nervous. Might have felt like creeping back with your head hanging, except you’re being _brought_ here. And not by just anyone, but by the tallest living skeleton you’ve ever met who is also incidentally the brother of the boyfriend of the owner, and also happens to know The Frisk and the Fishlady from the Commercials.

Undyne’s outfit is kind of amazing. Not particularly in craftsmonstership, but rather in its sheer enthusiasm. It’s like wearable art that invites you to speculate how it possibly could have come into existence. The whole thing is knitted, and grade school craft project pompoms plug what appear to be holes left by dropped stitches. Hot glue was applied at some point in order to stop the holes from continuing to hemorrhage yarn, but you still recognize Mew Mew Kissy Cutie, the main character of a rather popular magical girl anime.

You can see why she and Papyrus are friends. You yelp when she clops her big scaly hands on your shoulders, but at least she’s smiling.

“What’s a WHIP??” she yells in your face. “Is it a _LITERAL_ WHIP?? A _BULL_ WHIP, maybe?”

“Um, work in progress,” you explain a little breathlessly, glad that the neon orange is doing its job. “I’m s-still--”

“G-g-gumdrops,” you hear a low, feminine voice say, and Undyne unexpectedly lets you go. You don’t even stagger, so that’s cool.

“I’m A-a-alphys,” the same voice adds. It’s coming from a small, blushing lizard monster who gives you a little wave with a clawed hand, then blushes harder as if second guessing her decision to wave to someone five feet away. Alphys’s sweater is also decorated with an inexpert but carefully applied collage featuring the same anime character.

“Is that Mew Mew Kissy Cutie?” you ask unwittingly, and the next forty five minutes become instantly occupied. During which you see why Undyne, Papyrus, and Alphys are friends. Well, in Alphys and Undyne’s case, a couple. At some point Papyrus brings you a drink, looking vaguely sweaty and possibly...apologetic? It’s not like you need to wet your whistle since you can’t get a word in edgewise, but it’s nice and sweet and is probably just seltzer with grenadine. You don’t mind, though. Alphys is giving you a lot of reasons to consider watching the anime she’s waxing so passionately about, and Undyne’s interjections about the fight scenes are surprisingly informative.

In the end, it turns out the “gumdrops” thing works both ways, because Undyne saying it makes Alphys cut herself off with a loud throatclearing noise. She must not have been expecting you to have paid attention, since she seems very surprised when you ask a few questions about some important plot points. She and Undyne hold hands while the monologue becomes a more natural dialogue, but you end the questions once you notice Papyrus is making really exaggerated boredom faces.

“WHY DON’T WE GO SAY HI TO MY BROTHER?” he asks desperately, and you give a quick nod. Alphys waves again when you head off, but seems a lot less embarrassed about having done so. Or maybe it’s just that Undyne immediately seizes her for a vigorous necking session. Yeah, Papyrus is A Lot, but it turns out his friends are Just As Much.

You’re surprisingly into it.

“THEY’RE DOING IT AGAIN, AREN’T THEY?” Papyrus caws without looking back as he makes his surprisingly nimble way through the crowd, which has increased since you got here.

“I don’t think that counts at doing _it_ , but yeah they’re making out,” you giggle. Papyrus narrows his sockets at you, then shuffles his boatlike feet forward a few more inches. It’s not a big place, but it takes a few minutes to get over to the bar since monsters tend to just sort of stand around and ignore people trying to get through, much like humans. Well, nothing's stopping you from looking at your goal at least. When you came here before, you always used to show up early so you could sit at the bar. There’s a reason for that, and it’s mostly that the bartender is made of fire and yet manages to be super cool.

Grillby makes a complex gesture as he serves, a swivel of his shoulders...that you’re realizing might be the same one Papyrus makes now and then. It reminds you of the thing he said, about flames making things “automatically cooler”. That’s his big brother’s beau, and it’s possible….he looks up to him? Well, that’s so adorable you might die.

Papyrus’s brother is right beside him, more economical in his movements but no less efficient for that. He looks like he might be talking to Grillby, and Grillby himself seems awfully bouncy? Huh. He might be laughing.

Then you look past the dynamic duo behind the bar at a large figure tucked in the corner, and go cold.

It can’t be, but it is. Toriel, the Queen of All Monsterdom….is literally sitting at the bar of your usual spot sipping a glass of wine. As you watch, Sans shuffles over to her. Looks like he tells another joke. She throws her head back and laughs, acting very relaxed and almost...goofy? She’s even bigger than she looks on TV. Well, shit.

“I, uh, need a minute to uh...”

You’re not even sure if Papyrus could hear you over the hubbub, but you’re out the door and taking big gulps of fresh air outside. The rumble and clatter and music from inside Grillby’s blends together into a roil of organic sound, almost like a massive sea creature you’re standing just beside. Like getting swallowed by a whale, or a world, or being underwater without…

Geez. There you go again. You swallow reflexively, feeling awkward in your own skin. You look down at your hand decorated shirt, which suddenly seems stupid and ugly. What were you thinking?

Well.

Not that you’d be in the same bar with a bunch of monster celebrities and a slumming Queen, that’s for sure.

You probably smell like armpit cumin.

The door swings open again before you have a chance to start crying about it or something equally ridiculous, and of course it’s Papyrus. Suddenly your valiant attempts to feel bad about yourself seem more ridiculous than anything you could possibly wear, do, or say. Not that you can think of anything to say right now.

But Papyrus just walks over, lines up with you so you’re facing the same direction, then leans against the wall. Which you now realize you are also doing, staring into the well-lit darkness of a downtown evening. There are a fair amount of people around, human and monster. Some are walking excitedly to unknown destinations, others standing near cars and talking. A pair of humans open the door to Grillby’s and go in, one holding the door for the other. They’re really cute about it. Everything’s kind of shiny under the streetlights, and looks much cleaner than it does in the day.

“IT’S REMARKABLY CROWDED TONIGHT!” Papyrus says. It’s a lot more tact that you expected. Or maybe he’s just stating a fact.

You reply, “Yeah,” appreciating it either way.

“YOU’RE LIKE ME,” Papyrus says after several minutes of just watching people and objects.

“Um.” You clear your throat, then muffle a grenadine-scented burp. “Thank you?”

Papyrus sighs instead of just saying sigh.

“I FORGOT IT WAS FRIDAY. OR, I DID NOT FORGET IT WAS FRIDAY, I FORGOT WHAT FRIDAY MEANS AT VARIOUS PLACES THAT AREN’T MY HOUSE?? I USUALLY LIKE TO COME HERE ON TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS WHEN IT’S LESS BUSY? AND SO DO YOU?? BECAUSE THIS IS A LOT AND I FORGOT IT GETS SO CROWDED AND I WAS THINKING WE COULD TALK AND, UM, TALK MORE LIKE WE WERE EARLIER EXCEPT EVERYONE IS VERY? MUCH??”

“Everything happens so much,” you giggle. Also you feel warm because Papyrus said he wanted to talk with you more, which implies he liked it.

“NYES. AND ON FRIDAYS AT GRILLBY’S, SIGNIFICANTLY MORE EVERYTHING HAPPENS WITH INCREASING FREQUENCY. IT’S...DISTRACTING? ALSO, NO ONE PAYS ATTENTION TO ME WHEN IT’S LIKE THAT.”

You look over at him shyly, not sure what to say.

“IT’S NOT SHALLOW TO WANT PEOPLE TO PAY ATTENTION TO YOU,” Papyrus says, like he’s objecting to something you didn’t say. You wait and see where it goes, since that seems to be working out for you so far. “I THINK EVERYONE WANTS THAT SOMETIMES, BUT….NICE ATTENTION!! NOT MEAN MAKING FUN OF PEOPLE ATTENTION.”

“Sorry,” you say, shamefaced. But Papyrus turns to look at you in surprise, like you said something really unexpected. Oh. Maybe he didn’t mean you, then. But it really seemed like he did.

“ _YOU_ PAID ATTENTION TO ME IN A NICE WAY, EVEN THOUGH WHAT YOU _SAID_ WAS SOMETHING ELSE,” Papyrus informs you. “IT SURPRISED ME THAT YOU PRETENDED NOT TO LIKE SOMETHING YOU LIKED, BUT...I THINK IT’S BECAUSE SOMEONE WAS MEAN TO YOU. AT SOME POINT. ABOUT LIKING THINGS.”

You blush, but he seems heartened by it rather than put off.

“OR PEOPLE?”

“Huh?”

“WHAT?”

“People?”

“WHAT ABOUT THEM?”

“What about people?”

“ABOUT LIKING PEOPLE.”

“What about it?

“SOMEONE WAS MEAN TO YOU AT SOME POINT ABOUT LIKING PEOPLE SO YOU LEARNED TO PRETEND NOT TO LIKE PEOPLE YOU LIKE?” he says, seeming almost as confused as you are now.

“I...pretended not to like someone?”

“YES!” Papyrus says, relieved. “YOU LIKED _ME_ AND I _LIKED_ THAT YOU LIKED ME AND WANTED TO KNOW IF I LIKED YOU??!!! THEN IT HURT MY FEELINGS A LOT WHEN YOU PRETENDED YOU DIDN’T TO MY BROTHER!!!”

“Oh.” That was the conversational equivalent of getting yanked into a convoluted square dancing routine where the last instruction is slap your partner, do-si-do.

“YOU THINK A LOT OF THINGS AND DON’T SAY THEM,” Papyrus blurts. He’s fiddling with his gloved fingers again. “AND I MAYYYBE FORGOT PEOPLE DON’T LIKE IT WHEN I SAY THAT I CAN TELL THEY LIKE ME?”

“I don’t mind,” you say earnestly. You like it better than the other part, that’s for sure. “Hey, so… I know monsters think about it differently, but… how old are you?

Papyrus’s eye sockets are like, not the same size at all right now.

“SERIOUSLY?”

You tug at the hem of your shirt. “Well, yeah. I know you, you work at--”

“I’VE BEEN AN ADULT FOR A LONG TIME!” Papyrus interrupts, seeming mildly offended. “I’M JUST….DELIGHTFULLY QUIRKY. FOR EFFECT!! IT’S VERY REFRESHING!!”

You chuckle. “I noticed.” You clear your throat. “I was just asking because, um. I never asked a monster out and I was wondering if, I could maybe ask you out?” Because Sans giving you looks made the idea occur to you regardless of anything having to do with pants, and it’s becoming excruciatingly obvious even to you that there’s some like-like happening here.

“WE’RE OUT RIGHT NOW,” Papyrus says. Thing is….his face is doing that thing, the iridescent thing, and his sockets are angled so you can tell he’s not meeting your eyes. So much you can see it in the nighttime. He knows what you mean. It’s possible he’s letting you down easy, then.

“Yeah, I guess we--”

“YOU REMIND ME OF MY SECRET FEELINGS!!!” Papyrus yells, actually sweating now. “ALL THE WAYS I’M...” He makes a rough little noise in his skull. “THEY’RE SECRET! SO, THAT MEANS I DON’T HAVE TO SAY THEM!”

“Hey.” He’s just fiddling with his gloves and looking at the wall over and over, even though you’re both facing each other now. “Do you want to do this again, sometime?”

Papyrus finally looks right _at_ you, tension melting out of his shoulders.

“YOU’RE DOING THE PART WHERE YOU ASK ME IF I WANT TO DO THIS AGAIN SOMETIMES….EVEN THOUGH IT’S NOT OVER YET??” he says, not softly but full of wonder. It seems you finally said something right.

“Yeah,” you admit. “We don’t have to dance and meet everyone and drive around and cook perfect meals and talk about secret feelings all at once before the night ends,” you add, and he looks even more relieved. “We can just, um. Hang out and see how it goes?”

“THAT IS AN _AMAZING_ IDEA,” Papyrus announces, and those big hands come and rest on your shoulders again. “HOW VERY PAPYRUS OF YOU.” It’s really nice. “DO YOU WANT TO HUG IN GLORIOUS CELEBRATION?” he asks, a fragile hope in his expression making adamant bones seem soft.

“Yeah.”

You turn your face to the side and wrap your arms around him, marveling that his whole body has the paintbrushes-wrapped-in-cloth feeling. You can feel ribs against your cheek. Or maybe a collarbone? Papyrus gets a little...closer. Well, not the whole thing...there are some parts that feel almost soft-ish, like cloth billowed out by a steady stream of air.

He’s not warm, though. Seems about the same temperature as the warmish air outside, and it’s nothing like hugging a human and also very nice. Very nice, and also makes you notice your heart hammering like someone's whacking it with a drumstick. Then you shiver with giddy elation, which is ten times more weird-seeming and embarrassing than reading about it in a story. Makes you wonder if Papyrus thinks something’s wrong with you.

Then _he_ shivers right back.

And it _rattles_.

You lean back just enough to look up at him, amazed and blown away. He cocks a browbone, not saying anything but implying _YEAH, I DO THAT TOO_. Papyrus smiles down at you, a look you don’t think you...you’ve ever…. _No_ _one’s_ ever looked at you like this. You lean in close, head swimming with the scent of bones, perfume, cumin, and the faint chemical tang of recently dried fabric paint. It draws you in, makes you want to lean up, and--

Papyrus lets out a panicked squawk, lets go of you immediately, and backpedals away so fast he nearly falls.

“Sorry!” you cry, gutted before you even finished processing whatever the hell just happened.

“W...WHAT--!?” He’s sweating and panting. And now you’re turning around and walk-running away to an unknown destination, still yelling breathless, weird-sounding apologies.

“WAIT!!”

You flinch and keep going.

“IT’S NOT THAT!! His yell’s getting closer. “PLEASE??”

You stop, staring out into the night. Also, you were not walking towards your car so it’s probably good you stopped.

“YOU CAN TURN AROUND, PROBABLY? I DON’T THINK THIS IS A DUEL!? I DON’T HAVE A WEAPON, OTHER THAN MY _SHARPLY_ DEFINED ABS AND RAPIER WIT??”

You turn around. Papyrus is a few yards away. Then he walks up to you, fidgeting...nervously? He takes a deep breath, does a dramatic rolling gesture with both arms as he sighs it out, then lets his arms flap down to whack his hips loosely with a muffled clack. He continues to gently twist his body side to side, like he’s reluctant to say whatever he’s about to.

“WHEN WE FIRST...GOT UP HERE.” Papyrus’s teeth are always exposed, but he’s not grinning right now. He obviously means when monsters first got to the surface. Wow. Apparently he is going to lay it on you. “THERE WAS AN ANIMAL. I-I SHOULDN’T HAVE TOUCHED IT! BUT I DIDN’T...KNOW WHAT ANYTHING WAS.” He turns to you. “HOW COULD I, RIGHT?? IT’S...UNDERSTANDABLE, AND...” It has the tone of something he’s been told many times. “I JUST...WANTED TO...”

“Make friends?” you try.

He nods slowly, staring at nothing in particular.

“IT BIT ME,” he says thickly. “HARD.” He’s rubbing his fingers over the gloves again.

“I’m sorry,” you say, but he shakes his head. He looks absolutely miserable.

“YOU WERE GOING TO DO SOMETHING, RIGHT?” Your face burns for a second, but whatever this is is obviously harder for Papyrus to say than it is for you to hear. “SOMETHING THAT MEANS YOU LIKE ME?”

“Probably,” is the best you can do. “You’re afraid I’ll bite you?”

“NO!! I DON’T…!! I DON’T, ERR, _THINK_ THAT!” He makes a sad, wordless noise. “THOUGHTS DON’T ACTUALLY COME INTO IT AT ALL, JUST FEELINGS! IN FACT, I’M NOT EVEN AFRAID OF YOUR MOUTH?? IT’S...MORE LIKE...”

He sucks in a breath, tries to put his usual facial expression back. It’s crooked.

“IT’S JUST A SLIGHTLY MASSIVE AND COMPLETELY DISEMBODIED FEAR THAT HAPPENS VERY LOUDLY WHENEVER A MOUTH IS EXTREMELY NEAR ME!!” He rushes out, then nods decisively despite the sad teardrop shape of his sockets. “I CAN’T REALLY CONTROL IT HAPPENING OR IGNORE IT WHEN IT DOES, SO, S-SO I J-JUST, MAKE ROOM FOR IT! IN MY LIFE!”

“Oh,” you say quietly. Then, “Oh! It’s like a…phobia, then.”

Papyrus eyes you, fiddling with his hands and not saying anything.

“It’s...okay, it’s...” You clear your throat. “It doesn’t bother me? I actually feel relieved, because I was worried I did something bad.” Papyrus looks to be processing that. “Thank you for telling me?” you add, and that seems to help. He gives you a tremulous smile, at least. Then he takes a deep breath, and holds his hand out. Offering it. And yeah, you’ve held hands a little bit already, but this one’s…special. Papyrus is doing something that means he likes you.

You reach out and take his gloved fingers into yours, marveling again at the fascinatingly inhuman temperature and feel of it. Like paintbrushes rolled in cloth. There’s some mutual squeezing, and when you look up, you grin at each other. Before it gets awkward, Papyrus starts talking again.

“IT’S JUST AS WELL WE’RE NOT OUT HERE KISSING UNDER THE STREETLAMPS! WHAT WOULD THESE SMALL TOWN GOSSIPS HAVE TO SAY!?”

You snicker, and he seems very encouraged.

“THAT PAPYRUS!! WHAT A SLATTERN! KISSING _HUMANS_ WILLY NILLY IN PUBLIC!! ALSO, DON’T KISS ME!”

“Okay.”

“FOR THE REASONS I MENTIONED BEFORE AND _NOT_ OTHER REASONS!!! I DON’T ACTUALLY CARE IF THEY THINK I’M A SLATTERN! I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT A SLATTERN IS!!”

“Okay. Me neither.” You’re pretty sure you know what a slattern is, even without anyone telling you. He meets your gaze and muffles a giggle. He knows, too.

“HUGGING IS FINE!”

“Okay.”

“BUT NOT RIGHT NOW BECAUSE WE’RE HOLDING HANDS AND HAVING A LOVELY EVENING STROLL BACK TO THE DOOR OF GRILLBY’S, WHERE ALL MY FRIENDS ARE HAVING A VERY DELIGHTFUL TIME AND WE’RE ABOUT TO JOIN THEM!!! IT’S _EXTREMELY_ ROMANTIC JUST LIKE METTATON’S MOST RECENT FILM, AND...”

Papyrus continues to narrate your journey, which is short enough that you end up at a standstill, staring at the outside of Grillby’s while he finishes up. He goes quiet, then continues to stand there, looking at the door with a very interesting expression.

“Do you want to let go?” you ask quietly.

“NOT REALLY, NO,” Papyrus says quickly, starting to sweat furiously at the innocent wood like it did him dirty. “HOWEVER. IF I GO IN THERE LIKE THIS, THERE IS A 74 PERCENT CHANCE MY BROTHER WILL MAKE FUN OF ME UNTIL THE DAY I DIE.” He takes a deep breath, blows it out heavily. “AND WHATEVER ALPHYS WILL SAY WILL SOMEHOW MANAGE TO BE AT LEAST SEVERAL DOZEN TIMES _WORSE_.”

You giggle, finding that hard to believe despite his conviction, then give his hand a squeeze. You aren’t expecting his satisfied little grunt, but you let go anyhow. You tuck the memory of the sound away in your heart to take out and polish at great length much later. First, there are _more_ memories to make.

“All good?”

“YES!” he cries, then looks at you. It strikes you again, how soft bone can look. Maybe it’s the magic. “DO YOU WANT TO DANCE WITH ME?” Papyrus asks, voice as harsh as his face is soft.

“Absolutely,” you answer with vigor. You can’t wait to show him how remarkably bad you are at it.

You pull open the door, letting the golden light inside bathe you both in an entirely new kind of magic.


End file.
